


the wrong end of a very long tunnel

by natsubaki



Category: Tokyo Ghoul
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bittersweet, Books, Correspondence, Forbidden Love, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Imprisonment, Kissing, Literary References & Allusions, M/M, Memory Loss, Moral Ambiguity, Mutual Masturbation, Tokyo Ghoul: re
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-06
Updated: 2018-12-06
Packaged: 2019-09-12 17:47:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16877424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/natsubaki/pseuds/natsubaki
Summary: The night Tsukiyama loses everything, he becomes the newest ward of Cochlea. In the only way he knows how, Sasaki attempts to reach him.





	the wrong end of a very long tunnel

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this idea languishing in my drafts since December 2015 - 3 whole years! And now it's finally done. Shout out to my beloved egg tl, who long ago punted this idea around with me <333

“Back again, so soon?”

Sasaki smiles at the familiar voice. “I just can’t seem to keep myself away,” he replies, pulling out a metal folding chair and setting it in place before the glass. He sits, feet spread wide, elbows resting atop his thighs.

“Your superiors can’t be happy about that, what with a prisoner stealing an Associate Special Class investigator’s time away… So then, Mister Sasaki, what shall we discuss today?” the person behind the window asks. “You already know that I don’t have much intel on Aogiri Tree, regrettable as it is.”

Sasaki frowns. The prisoner, Tsukiyama Shuu, the last living member of a fallen ghoul dynasty, is dressed in the usual Cochlea detainee garb, but it hangs loosely off the man’s thin frame. He can see the prominence of Tsukiyama’s collarbones, sharp lines connecting his shoulders. His hair is long for its style, bangs shielding one of his eyes, which carry deep bags underneath them. The harsh and bright fluorescent lights fill the hollows across his body with dark shadows, further accentuating Tsukiyama’s wasted state. The ghoul had been thin when he’d entered the facility, but now he appears even more frail, like a paper doll or a dried flower. 

Easily crushed.

“You should eat during mealtimes, Tsukiyama-san,” Sasaki says, which makes Tsukiyama flinch.

“Could we perhaps try another line of conversation?” Tsukiyama murmurs, avoiding Sasaki’s gaze. Sasaki’s frown grows deeper, but he does not press the issue. He suppresses a sigh.

Time to start again. “That book I brought the last time—have you had a chance to finish it?”

That, at least, makes Tsukiyama perk up. Talking about books chips away at his usual placid countenance, slowly removing the false mask he wears easily atop his skin. It’s one glimmer of joy in an otherwise hopeless and sterile environment. “Ah, yes, I did, what with all my free time,” Tsukiyama replies, the barest hint of a smile turning up one corner of his mouth. “I rather enjoyed this one. It was a bit more fantastical than the last one you’d lent me, but I think that’s why I liked it. Got me a bit out of me head for a moment.”

“Do you prefer that?” It’s probably a question he shouldn’t have asked.

Tsukiyama looks at Sasaki, but Sasaki knows the prisoner does not see him. There’s nothing in his eyes—the small light that had flickered burns low and out of sight. Sasaki wonders how much time will pass before it extinguishes. “I do,” Tsukiyama finally says after an empty pause. Somehow, it does not sound like a lie. “One’s own thoughts are a dangerous prison in and of themselves. If I must be captive, then it’s better to be confined physically than to linger someplace that cannot be trusted.”

“So then, this place—Cochlea—you trust more than yourself?”

The muscles of Tsukiyama’s neck flex, and a quirk returns to the edge of his lips. “Oh, yes. Here is predictable. The guards and their rotation, deliveries, visits… Nothing changes within this room. There are very few things that depend upon my choice. It’s a system. It’s reliable.”

“I’ll come again, later,” Sasaki says as he rises, brushing the wrinkles out of his slacks.

“You always do,” comes the soft reply, once Sasaki is out of sight.

 

It’s become habit, now, to visit Tsukiyama. Their conversation, too, is now habit: a remark about the other’s well-being, dodged answers, the exchange of collected paper. If Sasaki is lucky, he’ll catch Tsukiyama in a talkative mood, where the captive ghoul is eager to discuss the books he’d been lent. Other times, though—and increasing with unsettling frequency—Tsukiyama is reticent. Not exactly aloof, but being further pulled into the world inside his mind.

There’s been a change, though. It had started small, something Sasaki had almost missed. Something Sasaki could’ve easily mistaken as his own.

Lines of text underlined in soft graphite. First, a few words here or there, then growing to full sentences and sometimes paragraphs. Lines became notations as simple as exclamation points in the corners, then birthed words. Phrases. Letters.

Tsukiyama, within the margins of the books they shared, had begun to speak to him.

Sasaki knows these words are not meant for him. They’re likely intended for the one Tsukiyama is searching for—the one he’d tried to reach. The one who’d briefly appeared on that rooftop, screaming from a place Sasaki hadn’t known he’d locked inside himself.

It doesn’t matter. At night, Sasaki traces the loops and curls of script with the pad of his finger, reading and rereading the notes and passages, and falls asleep with the book clutched to his chest. It’s comforting, and strangely nostalgic. The inventory of his books that he can lend to Arima has been steadily decreasing, because Sasaki doesn’t want to erase any of the markings. That would be unbearably sad—as though he weren’t listening.

One day, after selecting the next tome he will lend to Tsukiyama, Sasaki sits at his desk, opens it to the first chapter, and touches pen to paper. 

He starts writing.

It’s not a bookstore date, but it’s the closest he’ll get to one.

 

He’s surprised when Tsukiyama returns the book the very next day. 

“Already?” Sasaki asks as he takes his regular seat across from the prisoner.

“Yes,” Tsukiyama replies, and his voice and countenance are so light—just like the man he’d met in the park so many months ago. “It was quite the page-turner.” His eyes slide from Sasaki’s to the corner of the room. He stares at the security camera for a few seconds, silent, before he returns his gaze to Sasaki. He smiles then, soft and kind, “I couldn’t put it down.”

Sasaki returns the smile. “What did you think? I’d be very interested to hear your interpretation.”

Tsukiyama leans forward—not enough for contact, and shatterproof glass separates them anyways, but enough to indicate at the book in Sasaki’s hands. Absurdly, Sasaki wishes to close the distance, wishes there were no barriers, but he only leans forward enough to pass the book back through the small slot and into frail hands. They do not touch.

There are people watching.

Paging through the book, Tsukiyama hums until he finds the spot he’d been looking for. He leans forward again as he turns the book around, as far on the edge of his seat as the shackles will allow. “You see this, here?” He taps at a paragraph midway down the page. His fingers are long and slender, like branches of a dead tree. “I felt connected with the protagonist’s suitor in this moment. I could truly feel his earnestness, his devotion.”

Sasaki’s eyes fall toward the passage. 

_You are too generous to trifle with me. If your feelings are still what they were last April, tell me so at once. My affections and wishes are unchanged, but one word from you will silence me on this subject forever._

Sasaki slowly brings his gaze up. His breath hitches in his chest, and it aches to his bones. 

“I felt true happiness for him, as well as our heroine. To have someone know you, and for it to be reciprocated...ah, well, I’m no stranger to the accusation of a romantic,” Tsukiyama continues with a broad gesture, filling Sasaki’s silence.

When Sasaki remains silent, Tsukiyama stops, shutting his mouth and folding it into something like a smile. It’s not happy, but it isn’t empty, either. “Forgive me, I’ve gotten away with myself,” he says as he tucks a lock of purple hair behind his ear. “We don’t have to discuss this if it doesn’t interest you.”

“No, it does,” Sasaki says a little too quickly— _too earnestly_ , his traitorous mind supplies—“interest me,” he finishes quietly. He can’t bring himself to meet Tsukiyama’s gaze. There’s something too familiar there, resting just below the surface, and Sasaki isn’t ready to face it. He doesn’t know if he ever will, or why he doesn’t just up and leave. Why he keeps returning, when he knows this prisoner carries nothing of value to his case.

Without waiting for a reaction, Sasaki stands, the scraping of metal chair legs harsh in the silence. He turns, shrugging on his CCG-issued investigator coat, and takes measured steps toward the door.

He steps through the opening, not looking back.

The book remains in his prisoner’s care.

 

That night, Sasaki wakes from a cold sweat, tasting the scent of blood and roses in his lungs.

 

The room is stark white and pristine, the overhead fluorescents washing out the shadows, somehow more sterile and impersonal than the prisoners’ rooms. Various tools hang like picture frames upon the walls: thin spikes, long-handled shears, a series of chains, hammers, and saws. A workbench along the side of the room is littered with jars of neon-colored chemicals and solutions. An examination table rests against the back wall of the room, next to a metal sink and a chest of shallow drawers. A pair of drains have been set into the equally white tile underfoot. 

It’s a curious color for a torture chamber.

Sasaki ignores his rising levels of discomfort at being in the room, but he does not try to make himself comfortable, refusing to sit in the singular chair installed at the center. Instead he prowls the perimeter, never settling at one area for too long. He resists the urge to check his watch.

The door opening catches him by surprise. Two guards shuffle through the doorway, bracketing their ward at the elbow and leading the captive ghoul inside. They force him harshly onto the central chair and cuff his ankles and wrists, the metal chains clinking heavily as they drag across the floor. Tsukiyama appears dazed, observing the guards’ motions in an almost detached fashion. He follows their movements as they exit.

“This room belonged to Associate Special Class Kijima,” Sasaki says after the door closes and he begins to pace. “It was his personal workspace. At his request, no cameras were installed, and the room has been soundproofed.” He stops before a tray of scalpels, holding one up to the light. It glints brightly, polished and waiting. Sasaki sets it back down, an uneasy chill erupting down the line of his body. “He didn’t like to have his...work...interrupted.” 

It’s hard to bury the disgust lacing his words. Tsukiyama’s eyes track his every movement. Unconsciously, Sasaki cracks a knuckle. “Since you refuse to talk to anyone but me, I’m afraid I must resort to rather drastic methods.”

Tsukiyama’s gaze finally catches on the stack of books Sasaki had set atop the workbench. His eyebrows furrow as they rake over the spines, a burble of nervous laughter preceding his words, “As I’m sure you’re well aware, Mister Associate Special Class, that if your plan was to torture me through paper cuts, you’d have a very hard time breaking the skin, though weakened as I am from the Rc suppressants.”

Sasaki ignores the comment, instead reaching for the top of the pile. He flips through the paperback, landing on a dog-eared page, eyes drawing down to the underlined passage. He memorizes the lines. 

Looking up, Sasaki meets Tsukiyama’s eyes, so wide and vividly red, and recites.

“ _You pierce my soul_ ,” he begins, an aching stirring something indecipherable inside, “ _I am half agony, half hope. Tell me not that I am too late, that such precious feelings are gone forever_.” 

He pauses. Watches. Waits. 

Tsukiyama remains caged like an animal. So he continues. 

“ _I offer myself to you again with a heart even more your own than when you almost broke it, eight years and a half ago. Dare not say that man forgets sooner than woman, that his love has an earlier death_.” Sasaki closes the book, the soft thumping incredibly loud within the confines of the small room.

“ _I have loved none but you_ ,” Tsukiyama finishes miserably.

Sasaki places the book down and reaches for the next. A collection of poems he’d picked up randomly on his walk back to the chateau, because something about its cover stripped him bare in the aisle.

“ _Your memory feels like home to me. So whenever my mind wanders, it always finds its way back to you_.”

He discards it. Takes up the next. Walks closer, until they are toe to toe, knees almost knocking.

He continues. “ _At one time I had given much thought to why men were so very rarely capable of living for an ideal. Now I saw that many, no, all men were capable of dying for one_.” 

Tsukiyama swallows. His face twists into a grimace, voice hoarse as though ripped from his throat: “I tried to stop you.”

Bracing a palm against the ghoul’s shoulder, Sasaki steps forward, slinging a knee over Tsukiyama’s legs onto the seat cushion. The position is awkward, but he manages to perch himself upright before settling over Tsukiyama’s lap. Beneath him, the ghoul barely breathes, the minute wavering of the front of his smock the only sign of it. Sasaki reaches up, fingers splayed at the crown of Tsukiyama’s head. He slides his hand down, combing through the soft hair, leaving it to rest at the juncture of the ghoul’s jaw.

“Will you stop me now?”

And then he leans in to press his lips against his prisoner.

It’s hungry and raw, disconcertingly familiar. Tsukiyama is pliant beneath him, opens his mouth and closes his eyes as if savoring the moment. Sasaki pushes past the tangled knot bound within his chest and presses closer. The bones underneath him are sharp and uncomfortable, but the flush that has bloomed across Tsukiyama’s face erases the pallor that had settled like a veil, and for the first time since he arrived so many months ago, Tsukiyama looks so damn _alive_.

Sasaki claws at Tsukiyama’s clothing—the fabric feels just as thin as the ghoul’s skin, as though if he tugged too harshly, both garment and man would break apart. But Sasaki wants to feel him, yet whenever he tries, Tsukiyama redirects his hands.

“May I touch you?” Tsukiyama pants as they break for air. 

“Please,” Sasaki breathes. 

It takes no time for Tsukiyama to reach for the belt looped into Sasaki’s slacks, unthreading the leather just enough to unbutton the pants and pull down the zipper. He tugs the shirttails free, the bottommost buttons popping open. While Tsukiyama is distracted, Sasaki hastily pulls at the waistband of Tsukiyama’s pants, pushing the front of them down just enough to expose the ghoul’s half-hard cock. 

When Tsukiyama wraps his thin fingers around him, a moan slips from Sasaki’s mouth. He feels so hot just from the simple touch, and encouraged, Tsukiyama begins to slide his hand down to the base then drags it back up, pausing to cup the head of his cock before repeating the motion.

It’s the first time he’s allowed someone to touch him in such an intimate manner since he woke up in the CCG’s care two years ago. It’s so different from touching himself, but even with another person, the act feels incredibly lonely, still—there’s a part of him that instinctually responds, yet a deeper part of him gnaws at how not knowing himself disallows him from fully giving himself.

But he’s still so, so afraid.

The faint skimming of teeth over his neck pulls him back to the present. Sasaki closes a fist around Tsukiyama’s cock, prompting Tsukiyama to thrust against him shallowly, Sasaki’s weight hindering any clearance for real movement. So Sasaki scoots forward in Tsukiyama’s lap and grinds his erection against the other man’s, earning a sharp gasp from them both. Fingertips lift to rake over Sasaki’s abdomen, hardened muscles pushing back against the touch, falling to trail along the scar Sasaki has no memory of ever receiving.

Their lips meet again, exchanging kisses open and desperate, panting hot puffs of air whenever they break for the inconvenience of breath. It makes Sasaki feel dizzy, not the sickening kind whenever the headaches strike or his eyes unfocus, but the lightness that greets alongside feelings of elation. When one of Tsukiyama’s hands moves to press against the small of his back, Sasaki kisses Tsukiyama harder, fighting to control his kagune from bursting out at the touch.

It would be so easy to let go, to allow this fleeting moment of pleasure to consume him. But Sasaki wants to _remember_ this, wants it to be something he can claim ownership over, because while this ghoul’s heart may belong to another, Sasaki can at least have these few minutes for himself. He rocks his hips, delighting in the way the action seems to rip coherency from the other man. Tsukiyama is a beautiful wreck underneath him: at some point, Sasaki’s hands had found their way back to his hair, the lilac locks now mussed and seductive in their dishevelment. 

Color catches at the corner of Sasaki’s eye, over to the discarded pile of books. There, at the bottom. 

_In this room, you must not love anyone_. He pushes the thought aside. 

He reroutes his focus onto Tsukiyama and the wicked way his hands are moving, at the sensation of another living being warm and trembling and so distinct, at the sighs that fill his ears and curl into his brain.

Far too quickly, or perhaps after waiting for some universe’s eternity, Sasaki shudders against Tsukiyama’s chest. He moans, biting down on Tsukiyama’s lip and tastes blood, the hot relief of it flooding into his mouth and setting his taste buds ablaze. Some buried, dark part of him _remembers_ this. The veins below Sasaki’s left eye sear with unknown fire.

Tsukiyama follows soon after, wet release coating his hands. Sasaki watches his face as he unravels, chasing distant memories of a life lived before his. The other’s eyes had briefly darkened along their edges, not quite enough Rc cells to fill in the black of his kakugan completely. The shadow recedes as quickly as it had surfaced. Sasaki leans in and presses his lips to Tsukiyama’s once again. The bite has already healed, and Tsukiyama groans into the kiss, his eyes fluttering shut as they both struggle to catch their breaths. 

It’s a futile pursuit. He shouldn’t have done this, but he can’t think of ever taking it back. Sasaki is drowning, lost in the maelstrom between what is _his_ and _not his_ , and he gasps desperately, incoherently, as though his very life were in peril: “ _You said I killed you—haunt me then. Be with me always—take any form—drive me mad_.” It’s as if he’s done this before, in some other setting—rattling off words that carry more than their meaning, evading the inevitable. “ _Only do not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you_.” 

Sasaki knows that he is on borrowed time. Ghouls in possession, especially those who have not proved themselves of value, have an expiration date. Eventually, they all will be disposed of, their desirable parts stripped and turned into undead weapons, their remains dumped into the compactor housed in the bowels of the tower.

This, too, is likely his fate.

For not the first or even second time, he prays that Tsukiyama will understand.

Tears slip down Tsukiyama’s face, dripping sorrowful designs onto his shirt. “Free me, then. Let me go.”

 _In this room, you must not love anyone_.

He returns to himself, or the version he thinks he is. Tsukiyama’s voice leads him back like whispers on a breeze.

Sasaki kisses him again, slow and gentle. It tastes of salt and regret.

Slowly rising, Sasaki undoes the shackles: first the wrists and then Tsukiyama’s ankles, the chains thudding lifelessly to the sides. He turns, rummaging around in the cabinets until he finds a clean uniform for the ghoul to change into. His chest burns so much, like his heart will catch fire and leave nothing but smoke and embers behind. Is this how Tsukiyama had felt that night upon the rooftop, battered and bloodied, as he had fought a ghost and lost?

When he turns back around, Tsukiyama has changed into his new clothes and stands with his hands clutching at opposite elbows. He worries his bottom lip between his teeth. Sasaki can still feel the phantom of it between his own.

He checks his watch.

“We’re on the third level. If you go down another level, there’s a sewer that leads out of the basement. Take the stairs. There won’t be any guards along this route for another twenty minutes, and the hallway camera still hasn’t been fixed.”

“And you?”

Sasaki doesn’t know how to answer that.

“This is all that I can do now.”

Tsukiyama won’t look at him, but Sasaki can see the spots of brightness gathering at the corners of Tsukiyama’s eyes. “Haven’t you done enough already? Isn’t that how we ended up like this?”

Gritting his teeth, Sasaki reaches over to the counter and grabs a syringe, and in an arcing flash he jams it into the side of the ghoul’s neck. Tsukiyama’s eyes briefly darken to black as the injection takes hold, and he scratches frantically at Sasaki’s fingers as they push on the plunger. It’s over within a few seconds, but it doesn’t make Sasaki feel any less worse. He pushes Tsukiyama roughly towards the door.

“That should help to neutralize the suppressants, in case you run into trouble. I will try to hold them off as long as I can.” He tries to smile, he really does, but his face is frozen. Fat tears roll anew down Tsukiyama’s cheeks, a hand pressed tightly to where the needle had slid home.

“Go.”

“Come with me,” Tsukiyama rasps. “You said not to leave you. Why must we always be separated?”

“Please,” and they’re running out of time—Sasaki is so close to _begging_ , “Another chance like this won’t come by again. I can’t leave you here to die.” He stares into Tsukiyama’s eyes, the red of them overwhelming. Despite his better judgment, he steps forward and clutches at Tsukiyama’s shoulders. “I’ll be the one to find _you_ this time.”

Tsukiyama’s fists are rigid and trembling at his sides, but after a moment he gives a sharp nod. And then he’s gone, his figure fading as it retreats to distant shadows.

Everything changes now.

Sasaki closes his eyes. Inhales. Feels as his lungs fill and expand before releasing his breath. Searches for the tingling of his kakuhou shifting at the base of his spine. His body may be borrowed, but it is still _his_ , and he will use it to do what he can. For the people who are waiting for him.

For the one he must return to.

He’s sure the Other part of him would agree.

**Author's Note:**

> Books referenced, in order of appearance: 
> 
> _Pride and Prejudice_ , Jane Austen  
>  _Persuasion_ , Jane Austen  
>  _The Longest Night_ , Ranata Suzuki  
>  _Demian_ , Hermann Hesse  
>  _Dear Kafka_ , Takatsuki Sen  
>  _Wuthering Heights_ , Emily Brontë
> 
> Title is from Richard Siken's "Straw House, Straw Dog" poem.
> 
> I'd love to hear what you think! Comments, kudos, shares, any level of incoherent screaming are all appreciated! <3
> 
> Talk to me on [Twitter](http://twitter.com/kaguneesan)!


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